I love this time of year in Maine. No sadness for me over the passing of summer. I am ready for the cool wood-smokey air, the thick golden afternoon sunlight, and the magical color explosion that is fall in New England.
When we lived in Alaska, I always became depressed in the fall. The season there was so brief–a week or so of glorious yellow aspens, soon stripped by strong winds.
It was a jarring transition from the wonder of an Alaskan summer to a very long stretch of winter darkness and cold.
Fall in Maine, on the other hand, gradually unfolds in a lovely progression of harvest and colors so exquisite they almost hurt.
And the colors change day by day, as one tree fades, others peak, making every walk and drive a changing palette of brilliance.
Photographs do not adequately convey the way the sun illuminates the trees, transforming them into glowing, blazing living sculptures.
The colors this year are the most vivid I have ever seen.
Out kayaking when the leaves were just starting to turn, the reflections were so clear that they created kaleidoscope-like patterns.
The water was very low and I had to carefully work my way over the shallows from lake to river–just an inch to spare.
But I was rewarded by basking turtles and a heron unfazed as I slowly drifting nearby.
No frost yet, so I am slowly–very slowly–putting the vegetable gardens to bed.
The sunflowers continue to feed the birds and one acrobatic red squirrel.
George has been working hard putting in our back fence.
And Capp is enjoying our picture perfect days.